


Something Stupid

by Donna_Immaculata



Series: Nightshapes [7]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, Christmas, Domestic, Families of Choice, M/M, Relationship Negotiation, Sex Talk, Tender Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 17:23:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2820209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donna_Immaculata/pseuds/Donna_Immaculata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It strikes Aramis, not for the first time, that Athos’ poise and elegance, and the sense of contained passion on which he keeps such tight control, are devastating. “Leave this on,” he whispers and seizes Athos’ hand before he can pull off his jacket. He pushes Athos back against the door, sinking to his knees before him. “You look beautiful.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Stupid

**Author's Note:**

> A Christmas fic in the Nightshapes 'verse. The fluffiest instalment yet, but then - it's Christmas.

“Who made the potato salad?” Flea licks off the last bite off her fork. “And why is it all gone?”

“Aramis did,” Porthos says. “And it’s all gone, because the whole point of this Christmas Eve dinner was to not have any leftovers.”

“You love leftovers,” Athos says.

“Everyone always complains that we eat too much at Christmas. I decided to take appropriate action for once.”

Aramis nods. “He was very firm,” he tells the table at large. “Sorry, Flea, no more potato salad, but can I tempt you to a meatball? They’re quite delicious too. The secret is cumin and a tiny little bit of cinnamon.”

When he discussed Christmas Eve dinner with Porthos, Aramis had felt like he was navigating around a minefield, blindfolded. After their rough patch last summer, Porthos and Flea have rallied, but Aramis was painfully aware of how precarious the balance of their relationship has become. Not inviting Charon wasn’t an option, either. Charon was as good as Porthos’ brother; to all intents and purposes they were each other’s only family. In the end, Aramis asked Athos to bring the best wine he was willing to share with people whose palates were considerably less refined than his, and hoped for the best. Should the unresolved tension between Flea, Porthos and Charon become unbearable, he could always deploy diversion tactics and shock everyone by flirting with Athos outrageously.

He smiles at Athos over the rim of his wineglass. Athos has proved a true friend and, aware of the potential awkwardness, has made sure to exercise his considerable wit to be as charming and amusing tonight as humanly possible. He has been lightheartedly flirting with Flea, leaving Porthos free to chat with Charon. The quirky charm of his conversation reminds Aramis why he has always been drawn to Athos, even before they became close friends. ‘Or lovers,’ he thinks, trying to not make it too obvious that he’s watching Athos across the table. 

“Is anyone having the last falafel?” Porthos says. 

“You have it,” Aramis says. “You’ve earned it. Best I’ve eaten in ages, when did you even learn to make them?”

The theme behind the menu, as they explained to their guests, was Berlin fast food. “Food you can get coming back from a club at four in the morning, but home-made,” Aramis said. “Athos brings the wine.” 

Flea is checking something on her iPhone. “Let’s go do the presents,” she says, putting it away. “‘Drei Haselnüsse’ is starting in half an hour, and we don’t want to miss the beginning.”

“Are we really going to watch that?” Porthos says.

“It’s tradition.” Flea gets up and kisses Porthos on the top of his head in passing. “You love it, really.”

“He always used to insist we watch it when we were kids,” Charon tells Aramis and Athos as they’re clearing the table. “And now he pretends he’s too grown-up for it.”

“Listen, mate. I know the dialogues by heart. All I’m saying is it might be nice to watch a different Christmas film for a change. What’s wrong with Die Hard?”

Aramis falls back, grinning, when they follow Flea out of the kitchen. “What about you?” he asks Athos in an undertone. “Are you going to participate in that fine German tradition?” He infuses his voice with just enough suggestiveness to make clear that there’s another option available.

Athos shakes his head. “I’m going home,” he says.

“Already?” Aramis looks at Athos from the side, sipping at his wine. “I thought you’d stay for a bit. I’m going to Mass later, we could leave together.”

“That won’t be until midnight, and I really need to go home. I’ve got to pack.”

“You haven’t packed yet? I’d have thought you’re better organised than that.”

“I’ve been putting it off.” Athos twirls his glass and glares at the swirling wine.

“What about you two, aren’t you joining us?” Flea calls over from where she’s crouching by the Christmas tree, rummaging through the piles of boxes. “This one’s for you.” She holds the present out to Porthos and kisses him on the mouth. “Merry Christmas.”

“Yeah, we better hurry, we mustn’t miss the owl’s conversation with Cinderella,” Charon says.

“Do not mock the owl,” Flea says.

“I wouldn’t dare. Best character in the film,” Charon says. But he’s lounging on the sofa with a grin, unwrapping a large parcel and looking more relaxed than Aramis has seen him in a long time.

Athos is leaning with one shoulder in the door, watching them settle down with a fond smile. He catches Porthos’ eye, and Porthos beams at him. “Join us?” he says, patting the spot beside him.

“I can’t.” Athos shakes his head. “I’ve got to catch a flight at insane o’clock tomorrow.”

“You could always go out with us and go to the airport straight from the club,” Aramis says.

“What, and give Father a reason to talk about nothing but my moral laxity for the next ten to thirty Christmasses?” Athos smirks.

The smirk doesn’t fool Aramis. “Yeah. Sorry.” He puts his hand on Athos’ arm. “Still, with the aid of whatever the latest generation of chemicals is called that will be available tonight, you could get through family Christmas easily.”

Athos shakes his head. “Really, I can’t.” He drains his glass.

“Not even for another drink?”

“No.”

“Shame.” Aramis keeps his voice light as air. “We’ll miss you. You’ve been delightful company tonight.”

This does make Athos smile, and the look that he gives Aramis actually makes his knees weaken. It’s amazing, the effect Athos still has on him after all those months of casual sex.

“As opposed to other nights?” Athos says.

Aramis shrugs. “You have been known to be moody...”

“Yes.” Athos looks him, all laughter gone from eyes and voice. “Sorry.”

“That’s all right.” Aramis says, equally seriously.

Sent on his way with many hugs and kisses, Athos disappears into the night carrying his Christmas presents in a large plastic bag, and Aramis goes back to his room. He closes the door and leans against it with his forehead. All of a sudden, a deep sense of sadness overcomes him. He hasn’t felt sad before, not during those weeks leading up to Christmas, even though they all knew that Athos would be going home for the holidays. Athos always did, and it’s never bothered Aramis before. Athos would usually fly to England on Christmas Eve, come back the day after Boxing Day seething with silent fury, get drunk, either with them or on his own, and be back to normal by New Year’s Eve, when they would then all get drunk together. That has been their routine for the last few years, ever since Aramis decided that he didn’t fancy going back to Spain to spend the holidays at whichever one of his cousins was organising the family Christmas that year.

He didn’t expect that Athos leaving for Christmas would affect him as much as it did. The idea of going clubbing tonight no longer seems appealing. Still. He takes a deep breath, steps in front of the mirror and looks himself in the eye. “You are going to have fun tonight,” he tells his reflection. Well. Better make sure. He opens a drawer, takes out a grey eyeliner and draws a thin line along his lower lashes with a steady hand. 

When he comes back into the living room, Aschenbrödel is conferring with the owl. “You’re right, Charon, she _is_ the best character in the film,” Aramis says, flopping onto the sofa next to Porthos. He puts a bottle with black nail polish on the table and pours himself a glass of wine.

“I like the horse,” Porthos says.

“You sound like Athos,” Aramis says. Porthos looks at him from the side, but doesn’t say anything. Aramis drinks his wine, unscrews the nail polish and begins to paint his nails, glancing up at the screen every now and then and making the right comments at the right time.

~*~

It was fun. He definitely, definitely had fun. Porthos and Flea accompanied him to Christmas Mass, and they went out clubbing afterwards. When they were staggering back home in the early morning, he and Porthos and Flea, Aramis looked up into the sky, breathed in the icy Berlin winter air and, for a fleeting moment, felt happy. All was right between him and the universe.

And then, a drunk stumbled into their path and threw up on the pavement, narrowly missing Porthos’ shoe, and the moment of cosmic communion shattered. They staggered on through the cold and the stink of stale alcohol and overflowing gutters, and when they reached the door to their flat, Aramis’ fingers were so cold that he couldn’t get the key into the lock.

He slept till after noon, woke up to the sound of rain hammering on the roof tiles above his head, dragged himself to the kitchen to brush his teeth and make himself a cup of coffee, decided after a look out of the window that there was no point getting up, and went back to bed.

When he wakes, the room is completely dark, but it is no longer raining. Aramis rolls on his back, switches on the lamp and blinks against the light. A residual headache throbs faintly behind his eyes, but it’s not bad enough to warrant Paracetamol. He gropes for the bottle of water instead, pours it down his throat and virtually feels the cells all throughout his body rehydrate and open like blossoms. There is still no point getting up and he toys with the idea of simply going back to sleep in the hope that he won’t wake up in the middle of the night and then toss and turn round for hours only to fall back asleep in the morning. Eventually, he groans and heaves himself out of bed. He’s going to have a shower, make himself a cup of tea and have some of the food that he made sure got left over from last night.

There’s a note from Porthos in the kitchen, but even without it, Aramis would have known that Porthos isn’t in. The flat feels different without him, the corridor an endless void, and the kitchen is cold and much bigger than usual. He doesn’t even bother warming anything in the microwave, but simply eats from the Tupperware box straight from the fridge, huddling in his jumper and shivering slightly when strands of hair, damp from the shower, sweep over the skin of his face and neck. When he brushes his teeth, he catches sight of his reflection in the mirror above the sink and registers abstractedly that he hasn’t removed the eyeliner properly and that there are dark smudges under his eyes. And when he makes himself a cup of tea, he doesn’t think of Athos at all and wonder how Christmas with the family has affected him so far. 

Porthos has left the fairy lights in the Christmas tree on, and warm light pours out through the living room door into the corridor when Aramis walks back to his room, both hands clasped around the mug of tea to warm his icy fingers. He startles at the sound of the key turning in the lock. Thank God, Porthos is back. They can put on the Die Hard trilogy and fall asleep on the sofa somewhere around a scene where McClane crawls through an air duct.

The door opens, and Athos comes in. Dressed in a dark blue tailor-cut coat, with an expensive suit and an open-collared shirt underneath, he looks like he stepped out of the ad for an exclusive gentlemen’s outfitters. Aramis stares at him across the corridor, and Athos stares back. There is an endless, breathless moment when the cold air that fills the length of the corridor between them begins to boil. Both move at the same time. They stride towards each other without a word and without taking the eyes off each other. Aramis has enough presence of mind to put the tea mug on a shelf in passing, before he throws himself into Athos’ embrace. 

Touching Athos coat is like getting his hands on a slice of luxury; the soft cashmere is cold and slightly damp, and Aramis shivers. Athos’ skin is cold, too; his nose is pressed against Aramis’ neck and his lips are dry and frozen. But his breath, as it mists against Aramis’ skin, is hot. Aramis runs a hand up Athos’ back and threads his fingers through Athos’ hair. It is considerably longer than it used to be in the summer, and he smiles when his mind supplies the image of prim aunts being scandalised at the sight of their nephew’s bohemian appearance.

“You’re cold,” he whispers, caressing Athos’ hair and pulling him closer with the arm around his waist.

“You’re shivering,” Athos whispers back, runs his hand down the length of Aramis’ arm and wraps his gloved hand around Aramis’ fingers.

“Come in.” He turns round and leads Athos down the corridor and into his room. Athos is shrugging off his coat even before the door falls shut behind them, and he throws it at the chair. He tugs off one glove with his teeth and begins to unbutton his jacket, his gaze firmly on Aramis. 

It strikes Aramis, not for the first time, that Athos’ poise and elegance, and the sense of contained passion on which he keeps such tight control, are devastating. “Leave this on,” he whispers and seizes Athos’ hand before he can pull off his jacket. He pushes Athos back against the door, sinking to his knees before him. “You look beautiful.” Athos groans as Aramis pulls his belt out of the loop and unbuttons his trousers, and his head falls back with a thud. Aramis shoves his shirttails up. “Hold this,” he says, and watches Athos clutch the fabric and hitch it further up his stomach.

Aramis grinds his palm against the outline of Athos’ hard-on, and then leans in to mouth him through the fabric of his pants. He sucks at the spot where a wet patch has already blossomed under the waistband. “Please,” Athos says. He puts a hand on Aramis’ hair and pulls him closer, very gently, until Aramis ends up open-mouthed against his cock.

His own cock is aching, trapped as it is under the unyielding fabric of freshly laundered jeans, and Aramis decides that this is not the time for teasing and for drawing out pleasure. He tugs Athos’ pants down and sucks him all the way in, without even so much as a preparatory lick. Athos groans again, a loud, wanton sound that rings in Aramis’ ears and thrums through his body, and thrusts his hips into Aramis until he gags. “Sorry,” Athos chokes out instantly, pulling back. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

Aramis hums around his cock and grabs Athos’ hips, pinning him to the door hard enough to immobilise him, and sucks him back in, relentlessly, until Athos’ cock fills out his mouth and it’s almost impossible to breathe. He tilts his head and bites down on the hard sides of Athos’ erection and it twitches in his mouth at the pleasure-pain. Above his head, Athos begins to pant, and a drop of sweat runs down his stomach and disappears in the hair on his groin. Aramis releases the tight clasp of his mouth, withdraws and sucks him in again, and he doesn’t stop, not even when Athos’ hand yanks painfully at his hair and he has to tighten the grip around Athos’ hips to hold him in place. This is not a nice leisurely blowjob; it’s hard and almost angry, and there’s a vicious need in Aramis that urges him on, because Athos is coming apart under his mouth and he wants to hear him cry out. He wants that picture of detached perfection that appeared in the door minutes ago end up in a soiled and shaky heap in his arms.

“ _Fuck._ ” Athos groans, and suddenly his hand on Aramis’ head hurts, because he shifts his weight onto it, using Aramis as support as his knees buckle. “Christ. Aramis.” And he’s coming on Aramis’ tongue and lips, almost doubled over and panting, and Aramis presses his open mouth to the spot of skin below Athos’ navel and lets the come and spit trickle out of his mouth. He watches it dribble down sluggishly and gets up, dragging his hand over Athos’ thigh and cock.

“Merry Christmas,” he says and kisses him. Athos chokes out a strangled laugh.

“This must be a continental custom,” he says. “The raunchiest we ever do is mistletoes.”

“Think of it as intercultural exchange,” Aramis says and kisses him again. He’s still hard, but now that he’s standing and the angle has changed, his cock is no longer trapped awkwardly, and the way it strains against the fabric feels good rather than painful. He reaches down to adjust himself nevertheless, but Athos seizes his wrist, pulls his hand away and unbuttons his jeans. Athos is holding him close with a hand at the back of his neck. He’s still wearing his glove; it makes his touch appear almost detached, not to mention masterful, and it makes Aramis’ spine tingle. Athos never stops kissing him when he snakes his other hand into Aramis’ pants.

“How quickly can you come?” His tone is conversational; he has regained his calm and poise almost instantly, and Aramis vows to himself that he will have Athos writhe helplessly beneath him tonight.

“You show me,” he says. “I’m not going to hold back.”

“Okay.” Athos brings him to full hardness with a few strokes. He then squeezes his legs together and guides Aramis’ cock between his thighs, where his come has not yet dried. Aramis thrusts into the tight slot even before he knows what’s happening. “Come on,” Athos whispers in his ear with a filthy flick of his tongue. “Come on, Aramis. Fuck me.”

After a few hard thrusts, as it turns out. This is all that it takes, and Aramis shoves his cock, his pelvis, his entire body into the solid weight of Athos. Athos, who bites down on Aramis’ lower lip and who scratches his nails down Aramis’ ribs – stinging counterpoints to the soft slick heat between his thighs. His arm is wrapped around Aramis’ waist and Aramis is clinging to him with both arms around his neck as he gives himself over to the rush of pleasure that floods his entire abdomen and makes the muscles of his loins, his arse and his thighs convulse.

Athos waits until his breathing evens out and pushes himself off the door. “Bed,” he says, peeling off his jacket and losing the glove as he manoeuvres them both across the room. They collapse onto the futon in a tangle of limbs.

“Why-” Aramis says and stops. He hauls himself on the bed properly and waits for Athos to pull off his shoes. “Why are you here?”

“I booked a return flight even before I finished lunch,” Athos says. Sprawled on his back with his shirt rumpled and his trousers open, he looks the picture of debauchery. But his eyes are serious.

“Christmas cheer got too much?” Aramis says, caressing Athos’ chest with his fingertips.

“Thomas introduced his new girlfriend to the family,” Athos says. “His fiancée, I should say. A very suitable gel, good family, donchaknow.”

“No pressure then,” Aramis says.

“There’s nothing wrong with living in Europe for a while, of course,” Athos says, twisting his mouth into a grimace. Aramis leans in and kisses him lightly. “A fine English tradition, sending the sons over to-”

“Kick Jerry’s arse.”

“Quite. And to sow one’s wild oats around Paris and other continental gomorrahs. But I was given to understand that I’m not getting any younger and that the bohemian lifestyle is expected to cease forthwith.” He turns his head to look up at Aramis and lifts a corner of his mouth in a non-smile. “And so I came back.”

Aramis leans in and kisses him again, swiping his tongue over Athos’ lip. “Am I a wild oat then?” 

“You are, if anything, the stretch of land where I’m sowing. The oats would be-” he gestures at the dried stains on his stomach and crotch.

“Oh. Of course. How stupid of me.”

“Not at all,” Athos says. “ _Your English is really good_ ,” he raises his voice and enunciates very clearly. “ _Well done!_ ”

“Thank you, that’s very kind.” Aramis brushes his fingers down Athos’ chest and begins to undo the last few buttons of his shirt. “I should perhaps teach you some Spanish. Could be fun.”

“You’d only teach me filth,” Athos says, glancing down at Aramis’ hand that moves steadily down his breastbone.

“Naturally.” Aramis pushes the fabric aside and flattens his palm over Athos’ chest.

“Take this off,” Athos tugs at Aramis’ jumper. “Unless you’re cold.”

“No. Not anymore.” He pulls it over his head, throws it aside and stretches out beside Athos again. “I’m glad you’re back. I got you something. Something that I didn’t want to put under the Christmas tree for everyone to see.”

“I never got you anything,” Athos says.

“You just spent hundreds of euros to fly back and forth between Berlin and London in one day. I can’t think of a better present.” Aramis crawls over Athos and reaches for the nightstand. He puts the paper-wrapped box on Athos chest and watches Athos unwrap it. “It’s an anal vibrator,” he says, quite unnecessarily probably, because Athos is not an idiot. “I don’t know if you have one-”

“I don’t.”

“And I think you can have a lot of fun with it.”

Athos switches the toy on and lets it buzz on his chest. “ _I_ can,” he says and looks up at Aramis, “or _we_ can?”

Aramis beams down at him. “Whatever you like. I’d be delighted to get involved, but it’s yours to take home and do whatever you like with it.”

“Well, thank you. And thank you for not putting it under the Christmas tree. That was very considerate.”

He was more nervous about this than he thought, Aramis realises, considering how relieved he is now. Even after everything that Athos and he have been doing, there’s always a small part of him that suspects Athos will push him back when he goes too far, and he’s not sure what ‘too far’ is and what he’s going to do then. He’s fumbling his way blindly around this… thing, and it’s exciting and exhilarating, not to mention mind-blowingly hot, but it’s also a bit scary. He feels like they’ve swapped sides, Athos and he, like he’s become more and more insecure the longer this has been going on, whilst Athos has settled into the arrangement comfortably.

Athos stirs against him, and Aramis kisses him on the chest. He turns off the vibrator and puts it on the nightstand. “Not now,” he murmurs and kisses a path down Athos’ sternum. The taste of Athos’ sweat is sharp and stingy on his tongue. “You’re salty all over,” Aramis mutters, licking around his nipples and down to his armpit. 

“Hm. Yeah, I’ve got to take a shower, actually. I feel rather grotty.”

“You taste delicious.”

Athos smiles. “It’s not that,” he says. “I spent hours in airports and planes today. Not to mention Christmas with the family. Aunt Genevieve makes you feel filthy by association.”

“Is Aunt Genevieve your clan’s mad aunt, the one who gets drunk and entertains everyone with filthy anecdotes from her youth?”

“Aunt Genevieve is the one who talks about our lost lands in British West Africa that are still rightfully ours, and about how the people who took them away from us should be thrown to the lions. Shooting is too good for them.” Athos gets up, tugs his dishevelled trousers back up around his hips, but doesn’t bother buttoning up. “She _is_ quite mad, even by our standards.”

“Sounds like it.” Aramis runs his hand up Athos’ thigh, kneading the firm muscle at the back of his leg. “Do you want me to join you?”

“Tempting,” Athos says with a hint of a smile. “But no. I really want to wash, and you’d be very much in my way.”

Aramis lets go of his leg and crosses his arms under his head. “Off you go then. Don’t be too long,” he adds when Athos is by the door. “Or I might start without you.”

When Athos comes back, he’s wearing a towel around his hips and nothing else. Aramis’ mouth goes dry and he feels himself getting hard at record speed; he’s fully there even before Athos reaches the bed. He’s very aware of the bulge pushing against the fabric of his briefs where his jeans gape open.

Athos puts his clothes on the chair and turns his attention to Aramis, measuring him with that cool level gaze that never fails to make Aramis’ bones turn to water. Athos’ wet hair looks almost black; it is much darker in winter than in summer, and his skin is so pale it’s almost translucent. There is such beauty to the way Athos’ appearance changes in rhythm to the seasons, just like his eyes change colour depending on the light. Towering above him, Athos is still and silent, only his chest moves with breaths that belie the calm expression on his face. 

Aramis drops his gaze to Athos’ groin. The towel does nothing to hide the outline of his erection; if anything, it’s even hotter than if Athos was fully naked. “Come here,” Aramis says quietly, without moving.

Athos breathes out a long sigh and lowers himself on the bed, dripping water on Aramis’ face and neck. He braces himself with both hands on either side of his head and continues to stare at him wordlessly. 

“Do you realise,” Aramis says, moving his hands down Athos’ ribs until they come to rest just above his hipbones. “That it’s been six months since this,” he pulls Athos down and grinds his cock into him, “started?”

“I do,” Athos says, and Aramis can tell how much effort it costs him to keep his voice level. “I think we’ve freaked out Porthos,” he adds and brushes the tip of his thumb over Aramis’ cheekbone.

“I think we’ve freaked out ourselves,” Aramis says thoughtfully. He moves his hands around Athos hips and splays his fingers over his lower back. Athos smiles with a corner of his mouth.

“Yeah. That too.”

“You’re still okay with it, though, aren’t you?” Aramis isn’t sure why he asks him that. He knows that Athos is okay with it, because if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t be here. Still, making sure that Athos is okay has become second nature to him, ever since he first touched him all those months ago.

“I am.”

Aramis smiles. He can’t help himself; the two simple words send a shower of warmth through his entire body, and he knows that he’s beaming up at Athos like a child who has been given an unexpected Christmas present. “Good,” he whispers. “I want you to be okay.” Athos’ face comes alive with sudden emotion and he buries it in the crook of Aramis’ neck. Aramis tightens his grip around him. “Aren’t you cold?” he says, stroking up and down Athos’ back. The room is warm enough, but Athos’ skin is cool to the touch. “You should get under the duvet.” 

“I’m fine,” Athos mutters into the side of his neck. He feels like he doesn’t want to move, and it occurs to Aramis how exhausted Athos must be after the day he’s had.

“If you don’t want to get under the duvet, that’s fine,” he says lightly. “But it could be fun, under the duvet.” Athos’ shoulders shudder with a burst of laughter. “But, you know. Suit yourself.”

“To be perfectly honest, I can’t be bothered to move,” Athos says.

“That’s okay,” Aramis says. He lifts one arm off Athos’ back and pushes himself up on his elbow, holding Athos to him with his other arm and rolling them both over, until Athos is tucked into the corner by the wall, under the slanted ceiling. Aramis reaches out behind, pulls the duvet out from where it’s trapped under their bodies and throws it over them both. “Do you want to go to sleep?”

“I am tired,” Athos admits, and yawns as if to emphasise his words. “But I don’t really want to sleep yet.”

Aramis kisses Athos on the shoulder and disentangles himself from him. “All right. Stay there.” He gets up, turns up the heating, fetches a bottle of baby oil, takes off his jeans and climbs back into bed. Athos is lying in the prone position in which he left him and his ribs move with slow, even breaths. “Are you asleep?” Aramis asks.

Athos shakes his head and looks at Aramis over his shoulder. “I’m not.”

“Good.” He pulls away the towel which has slipped off Athos’ hips anyway, pulls Athos by his hips into the centre of the bed and straddles him. “You’re not cold either, are you?” Athos shakes his head.

Aramis pours a bit of oil over his hand, rubs it between his palms to warm it and places both hands on Athos shoulders. He holds them there, waiting for Athos’ skin to warm under his touch. With the black nail polish, his nails are like drops of tar on Athos’ skin and the stark contrast makes it look painfully delicate. Athos’ hair curls in the nape of his neck and Aramis leans in and brushes the strands away with his mouth, eliciting a sigh from Athos when he breathes against his skin. “You’re tense.” Aramis moves his hands along his shoulders and digs his fingers into the tight knots.

“What did you expect?”

“Are you comfortable? Just relax, okay? I’ll help you.”

He has Athos’ body all mapped out; not just its shape, but also how it reacts to touch. It takes him a while to knead the worst tensions out of Athos’ muscles and get him to relax into the mattress. Once he feels Athos go loose-limbed, Aramis eases the pressure of his hands, makes his touch lighter, more playful. He sweeps his hand down the lean muscles of Athos’ shoulders and arms, over the long back and narrow hips, and cups his arse cheek. Athos’ shoulders flex, muscles rippling under his skin, and Aramis leans in to nip at them with his teeth. When he sits back up, he drags his nails along the line of Athos’ spine and watches goosebumps erupt on his skin all the way down to his arse, and he strokes over its curve with the flat of his hand. Athos’ skin is glistening with oil, and Aramis is prepared to bet that Athos is as turned on and hard as he is. He slips his hand between Athos’ legs from behind and keeps it there without moving, applying just the tiniest bit of pressure. Athos parts his legs as far as he can with Aramis straddling them. The hand that rests in the sheets twitches. Aramis picks it up and begins to rub small circles into its palm, relishing the way Athos’ fingers flex as if he was grappling for something. His hands are very pale and there are a few freckles on his wrist, much fewer than in summer. Aramis caresses each one of them with his fingertips and puts Athos’ hand gently down. He pours more oil over Athos’ arse, rubs it in and slots his wrist between Athos’ legs again, pushing his arse cheeks slightly apart with his forearm. He is rewarded by a sigh and by Athos’ pushing down against him.

This, Aramis suspects, is what he was truly born to do. He knows how to touch people to give them pleasure, and he knows with absolute certainty that Athos is going to come under his hands tonight. Still, there is something that has been – not a nagging worry, exactly, because he doesn’t worry about it – that has been lingering in the back of his mind. He pulls his arm out from between Athos’ legs and slides his hand slickly over his thigh to his hip.

“Do you like to fuck?” he asks.

It is to Athos’ credit that he’s entirely unfazed by that eccentric conversational gambit. “Is that a trick question?”

“I mean, do you like the… the act of penetration? Because I know that you like it when I deep-throat you, and I know that you always keep yourself from thrusting into my mouth too hard. And, well, what we do together… it doesn’t really give you that option, does it? You always have to hold back.”

He feels Athos tense under his hands. “What are you talking about?” Athos turns his head to look at him, and Aramis is familiar with that frown. He sighs.

“Look, it’s okay for me. I don’t find penetrative sex that important. I like it obviously, but I like all the other stuff just as much. But you might feel differently about it.”

“So what do you suggest?” Athos twists his body and rolls on his back, while Aramis rises to his knees obligingly to give him enough space.

“You can sleep with me if you like.”

The way Athos is looking up at him makes the hairs on his arms and stomach stand on end. “Aramis.” Athos sighs in exasperation. “You don’t like anal. It, and I quote, doesn’t get you off and is more bother than it’s worth.”

Aramis smiles. “Did I say that? Oh. Well. Yeah, that’s true. But that’s not the point, is it?”

“Not the point?”

“I don’t hate it, if done correctly. And I trust you that you’d take care to do it right, you know. I don’t want you to feel-” _don’t want you to feel like you had to search for proper sex elsewhere,_ “like what we do is not enough.”

“Not enough?” Athos raises himself on his elbows and glares at Aramis from up close. “Aramis. Do you seriously think that I need to stick my dick in to enjoy myself?” He sounds genuinely angry.

“I know that you like what we do,” Aramis says. “Really, I do. It’s quite unmistakable. But you might enjoy it even more if-” His next words are cut off when Athos grabs the back of his neck and kisses him viciously on the mouth. 

“If I did something that you don’t care for?” Athos hisses into his mouth. 

Aramis puts both hands on Athos’ shoulders, caressing the hard line of straining muscles with his thumbs. “Okay. Look. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but you know that what we do, that this is not merely carnal, right, that this is more than just physical gratification?”

“Yes…” Athos says slowly.

“Right. So. I don’t care much for anal, no. But with you, it’d be an act of intimacy. And you know that I’m into that.” He keeps his voice light and smiles, praying that he’s not freaking Athos out. “ _And_ it’s Christmas,” he adds with a broad grin.

Athos falls back into the pillows and stares up at the low ceiling. At least he’s not trying to bolt, and Aramis doesn’t think that this is just because he’s being kept in place by Aramis sitting astride him. He waits for Athos to speak, ignoring the way his heart hammers against his ribs, but Athos remains silent. Eventually, Aramis strokes across his abdomen with his fingertips, lightly, just to remind Athos of his presence, and lowers himself half-beside, half-atop him. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Athos puts one hand on Aramis’ shoulder. “Fine.”

“Good.” He inhales deeply and feels Athos’ hand tighten around his shoulder. “It’s not-”

Athos cups his face and kisses him on the mouth, almost winding him through the combined force and tenderness of his kiss. Aramis gasps and clings to him, kissing back with his mouth open and without finesse. He loses his rhythm and forgets how to breathe properly, and when they break apart he’s panting and his head spins.

“I went five years without any sex whatsoever,” Athos says in a low voice. “How can you even suggest that getting a fuck is suddenly more important than-” He breaks off and bites his lip, and then kisses Aramis again. 

“Than?” Aramis prompts when he can speak again.

Athos shakes his head. “Nothing.” He touches Aramis’ hair lightly and pulls back as if suddenly uncertain. Aramis takes a deep breath and presses his mouth to Athos’ lip in a gentle caress, just above the scar, and when he moves to kiss him properly, he gets it right this time. It’s now Athos’ turn to pant and clutch at his shoulders. Aramis feels just a tiny bit smug that he’s managed to once again break down the walls of composure and reduce Athos to a gasping bundle of instincts and nerves. His superciliousness shatters at Athos’ next words, which are barely more than a breath in Aramis’ ear. “Than you making me feel like this.”

Aramis whimpers. He can’t control it, the desperate sound that tears from the very bottom of his chest, and he buries his mouth in the hollow beneath Athos’ collarbone in the hope that Athos’ body will absorb any further embarrassing sounds of distress. He knows. Of course he knows. He has been around the block – several times over in fact, and about town as well. He knows how Athos reacts to him and what it means. Hearing Athos admit it though… Athos doesn’t bestow his affections easily, let alone his trust, and the enormity of this… thing, the responsibility he carries, the responsibility to not to fuck this up, not to destroy the delicate structure of mutual trust by doing something inconceivably stupid, scares him out of his wits. He’s about to say something light and flippant to ease some of the tension that hangs between them, but that would be exactly the kind of stupid thing that he mustn’t do. He pushes down on the fear and focuses on the tenderness instead that has unfurled in the pit of his stomach and that’s always made it easy in the past to tell people-

Aramis lifts his head and kisses Athos on the temple. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

**Author's Note:**

> The film they're watching is [Drei Haselnüsse für Aschenbrödel/Tři oříšky pro Popelku](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/T%C5%99i_o%C5%99%C3%AD%C5%A1ky_pro_Popelku), a Czechoslovak/East German co-production that's on telly every Christmas Eve and is a must-watch because it's _glorious_.


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